


The Rook and the Nightingale

by 0positiv



Category: Being Human (UK), Rivers of London - Ben Aaronovitch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 09:36:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9066100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0positiv/pseuds/0positiv
Summary: Peter and Nightingale drive to Barry in the aftermath of Hatch's rampage to look for weird bollocks and talk to the head of the DoDD.





	

Barry was, apart from my one trip to Sierra Leone with mum ,the farthest I have ever been from London. I must say, I didn't see the appeal, but that might in part have been due to all the body bags and the suspicious amount of military personnel milling about and comparing gun sizes.

Now and then white vans would spew out solemn men in grey suits and flimsy plastic aprons who collected the bodies. I was pretty sure they weren't undertakers even if they gave off a very creepy vibe. But what did I know about Welsh undertakers?

As it turned out I was right about them after all. Me and Nightingale were here to talk to the boss of a unit called DoDD, which is the short way of saying Department of Domestic Defence. I am not quite sure what they are defending us from, domestically, but they seem to have a liking for sloppy alliterations and the colour grey. We were also going to poke around Barry a bit to see if we could find any "weird bollocks" to explain what happened here, of course.

Nightingale parked the Jag in front of a quiet restaurant in a side street where another grey suited guy was grimly standing guard at the door. He held the door open and waved us inside without a word after we introduced ourselves.

Inside only one table was occupied. The man got up as we walked over and I thought I saw Nightingale giving his suit an appraising look. It was slightly creased but clearly well tailored and given how he dressed I bet Nightingale did quite like a good suit on a man.

"My name is a Dominic Rook, the home secretary's office told me you wished to speak with me? "

We sat down at the table and Nightingale gave Rook a short overview of who we were and why coppers from London would have any interest in a Welsh tragedy.

Rook looked like he hadn't slept in days, his tie had small stains on it that looked suspiciously like blood and his hands were shaking slightly.

After a closer look at Rook Nightingale went over to the deserted bar and grabbed a bottle and two glasses. Back at the table he put the glasses down in front of himself and Rook and opened the bottle.

"Since someone has to drive us back to London I think you should keep to non-alcoholic beverages Peter."

Which I would also have to get for myself of course. When I came back with a bottle of Coke Nightingale was just pouring a generous helping of Bourbon into Rook's glass before pouring not even half as much for himself.

“That was quiet a nasty bit of trouble out there, wasn't it?”, Nightingale asked as he carefully sat down the bottle.

If there were a championship of understatements that sentence would have won it, hands down. Most inhabitants of Barry Island dead in a freak wave of seemingly infectious suicides was more like a whole shipload of trouble in my book.

Rook emptied his glass in one go which told me more about his mental state than his slightly rumpled yet calm appearance.

“Yes, quite. It is a rather unsavoury affair.”

Remind me to never again be in the same room as two terminally posh white English men (at least I think that the Rook fellow is English, he doesn't sound very Welsh to me).

And what is it with the people somehow connected to the demi-monde and bird names? I wonder if someone has made a study of that. I should ask Postmartin or maybe Dr. Walid when I see him for my next MRI...

“Peter?”

The tone of Nightingale's voice tells me that this wasn't the first time he'd said my name and when I made a distracted inquiring noise and force my eyes to focus on his face again he looked fond and exasperated in equal measures.

“I was wondering if you might want to start taking notes on Mr. Rook's statement since we are rather short a tape recorder or other recording devices?”

“Yes, of course sir, I was just going to do that.” And I was not going to remind my boss in front of witnesses that the phone I gave him for Christmas was a very capable recording device...

I fumbled my moleskine notebook out of my jacket pocket and started patting the rest of my clothes for a pen. I was sure I had had one somewhere only this morning.

Before I could embarrass myself even more Rook cleared his throat and held out his own pen which I gladly took. It was heavier than I was used to, clearly expensive. Trust the posh guys to buy pens that cost more than my suits.

“Well, now that we've got this settled why don't you start at the beginning and tell us what exactly has happened here?”

And tell us he did. Even after all I've seen so far (including fairy queens and mostly invisible unicorns) the capital-D-Devil was just a bit too much. Nightingale let Rook finish his – I suspect highly edited – account of recent events and then poured him another double Bourbon. I could have suspected him of trying to get the poor man drunk, I didn't think it would take much alcohol with a man who looked like a strong wind would blow him all the way to Oz, but of course one doesn't just accuse one's guv of wanting to take advantage of someone under the influence.

“What do you think. Peter?” Being the sole focus of Nightingale's attention would make anybody slightly fidgety, especially an apprentice who so far had not made the best impression today. So I had a quick look over my notes to summarise all the events Rook had described for us in my head before replying.

“It clearly was some kind of supernatural creature I'd say. I'd need more proof than just someone saying 'I'm the Devil' to believe that bit but whatever it was clearly had quite a lot of power. Did it use a glamour on the people who committed suicide? Or a spell, _seducere_? Maybe it was a revenant, like Mr. Punch?“

Out of the corner of my eyes I could see Rook focusing on me as well as soon as I started talking. I wasn't quite sure what he and his fellows with a common liking of grey suits actually did but from what Nightingale told me on the way here they sounded like some kind of government sanctioned cleaners for supernatural messes.

I had felt no _vestigia_ on him but then bodies, living or dead, don't retain imprints of magic well. I also didn't think he was a practitioner or any kind of fae really. Though with those big blue eyes and the fair complexion all he needed was some pointy ears and to grow out his hair and he could be one of Tolkien's elves.

Rook cleared his throat again and I realised I might have been staring at him a bit. Not that I was the only one. I was pretty sure I had caught Nightingale checking him out a bit when Rook wasn't looking. I think my guv needs to get out more...

“Far be it from me to doubt your experience, gentlemen, but why would it be so much more far-fetched that Hatch actually was the Devil than to believe he was some other kind of malevolent spirit?”

I just shrugged. If he put it like that it did seem a bit prejudiced. Was there a word for being prejudiced against a certain type of non-corporal entity? Ghost-ism?

“I think it is the Christian mythology part, at least for me. Why should it be the Christian devil and not Loki or some kind of Hindu god or whatever other gods and goddesses from any kind of religion humanity has ever believed in? Seems a bit odd, that's all.”

Rook looked like he hadn't even thought about it from this point of view yet he still did not seem convinced.

“Also, there is a slight possibility that this creature was actually the source of the Christian Devil myth. We don't know how old it is. But it might as well just have picked that moniker because it thought it would strike the deepest fear into the hearts of the people it was interacting with. Unless we can capture it and conduct an actual interview we might never know.”

Nightingale didn't sound like he really had any pressing desire to know either way. Me, on the other hand, I'd have very much liked to put this alleged devil in handcuffs and sit him down for a long interrogation. Who knows, maybe demons and angels and gods were actually real? Or maybe gods were actually aliens, now wouldn't that be something?

Nightingale asking Rook out for dinner successfully stopped me from following where that thought would have led. Not that he actually said _Go out to dinner with me,_ but it was certainly the posh white guy version of that.

“I am sure Peter will want to get a head start on the paperwork and I am sure there are some things you might have not yet told us that you would rather keep off the record. I may not have the highest security clearance but I assure you it will all be kept in the strictest confidence.”

They made it sound all very official and proper and not at all like they were going on a date. And I was very much not agreeing with the tiny voice in my head that sounded suspiciously like Lesley and insisted that I was jealous.

For my peace of mind I did my very best not to imagine my boss putting the moves on Rook while I went in search of my own dinner. How would posh people even flirt? Wouldn't that get a bit Jane Austen?

No, Peter, think of something else...

 

**Author's Note:**

> I just couldn't resist because Nightingale and Rook would be too posh to be true and also way too hot xD


End file.
